Verkisto vs The Chuck Me Mondays Challenge
by verkisto
Summary: The Challenge: Write a drabble or short fic relating to each episode after you view it during Chuck Me Mondays. Post them as chapters in a collection on a weekly basis. John Casey is on his way to LA for a quick in-and-out job. At least he hopes so.
1. Casey vs The Intersect

The tall man settled his large frame into the ample chair, aisle side, of course, and noted with satisfaction that the window seat was empty. The sound of the fabric of his cheap navy striped suit rubbing against the buttery leather was inaudible to the other passengers in first class, but it reminded him that he was only there, as usual, on the government's dime.

Maybe this would be the assignment that would give him a leg up in his career, maybe a big raise or a promotion, even. The NSA and CIA brass had seemed kind of worked up about the whole thing. Not just anybody would have been able to tell, but John Casey wasn't just anybody.

Well, it sounded like a cakewalk. Find a certain computer or a disk with the important intel on it and deliver it to the NSA. Off any CIA interference. Easy. Routine. Boring.

He waved away the stewardess who was offering drinks. Better stay sharp. You never knew. Sometimes even the boring jobs could turn out to be interesting.


	2. Casey vs The Helicopter

Casey winced as he stood in front of his bathroom mirror and squirted a stream of sterile saline over the large scrape high on his right cheek. He drew air in rapidly through clenched teeth when the liquid made contact and his face began to throb. The resultant sharp hissing sound he made would have to do for now. There was nobody near enough for him to growl at but himself.

Female spies. It was bad enough having to deal with the enemy, agents on the other side, whichever country's agents that happened to be at any given moment. Now they expected him to play nice with the CIA. And a girl agent at that. A damn kid.

Casey dabbed the area dry with some cotton gauze and then laid another square of folded gauze over the raw wound, ringing it on four sides with the white adhesive tape strips he had prepared and stuck temporarily to the edge of the counter. Then he placed his palms on either side of the sink, locked his elbows, and scowled at his reflection in the mirror.

Okay, so she hadn't killed Zarnow. But she had suspected him of doing it. Except it was her job to be suspicious of everything, just like it was his job not to trust anybody. And, he had to admit, she had put up a pretty good fight in that wiener place. Correction, she'd almost handed his butt to him and probably would have if he hadn't run out the back door. How had that happened anyway?

The deep ridges on Casey's forehead began to disappear as he recalled what had gone down next and his brows relaxed and gradually headed upwards towards his hairline. Soon, he was smiling to himself and chuckling softly.

That girl – no, that woman – had talked the computer doofus down while he was trying to fly a helicopter. A helicopter! Casey was the one who knew how to fly the stupid things and Walker had talked the boy down. Well, that was one for the books, anyway.

And now here they all were, like one big, happy family. The highly trained and experienced NSA assassin, the CIA skirt, and the doofus.

_Well, at least this Agent Walker seems to know what she's doing_, Casey finally admitted as he turned out the bathroom light and went downstairs to fix himself a large scotch on the rocks.


	3. Casey vs The Tango

Casey peered out through the slats of the window blinds into the courtyard of the apartment complex where he had been installed by the NSA. His eyes narrowed. He watched Walker turn to leave, a smug, secret smile on her face. Chuck was wearing a stupid-in-love guy face as that twit Morgan walked up to him and began to talk. If Casey had surveilled correctly, Walker had just called the lanky dork a hero. Well, that was a mistake. The kid wasn't a hero. Not after what had happened that evening, anyway.

Casey was a reasonable, logical man, not given to hysterical outbursts or irrational snap decisions. So during the mission briefing the day before, the one about the hunt for La Ciudad and several killings over some amateurish painting that was up for auction, it had seemed natural for the agent to add his two cents' worth.

"So we'll bring the Intersect."

They had been innocent enough words. After all, a man – and apparently now a woman – had to have the proper equipment on an assignment, and a walking database of pooled government secrets was actually quite nifty, right? Drive him around here and there, point him in the right direction, get the intel, take him home and put him back in his kennel or, in this case, the Buy More. Simple. Reasonable. Logical.

And then, still completely unaware of what was to come, Casey had added, "He'll be fine." Ain't hindsight a bitch.

Looking back now, how was anyone to know the words he had used after that to needle the nerd would be so prophetic in reverse?

"Congratulations, Chuck, you just got your first mission. Tomorrow night. Hope you're ready for the real world."

Snort.

The question was, it seemed, was the real world ready for Charles Irving Bartowski? Because, when all was said and done, they had gotten the bad guys and enough information to mop up a big and fairly nasty operation. And under the noses of the Brits, too. Bonus.

Had Casey really meant it? Those other words he had said to Chuck? In this business, unlike in the movies, things aren't usually neat and tidy, and no matter how a mission goes down, by the book or by the seat of an agent's pants, it's the result that counts. The Intersect, he admitted grudgingly, had gotten results.

Bartowski, a hero? Maybe. Okay, yes. And Casey had definitely meant those words that he had said to the asset when they were in the Buy More, because Casey never used words like that lightly.

"Good work last night."


	4. Casey vs The Wookiee

If Casey had one weakness, it wasn't for booze or gambling or fast cars. It wasn't even for women. It was for their underwear.

No, not like that. That would just be silly.

So when Director Graham informed the Intersect team dryly that their bosses were aware of what had happened in Prague with Carina Miller, Casey was immediately on the defensive. Too many people already knew about that little episode, and Casey didn't want Chuck added to the list.

General Beckman and Director Graham knew, the NSA psychology department knew, hell, the entire CIA, including Walker, knew. For all Casey was aware, INTERPOL probably had a file on it somewhere that they dragged out at annual Christmas parties all over the world for a laugh at his expense.

In Prague, in that hotel room with Carina, it had been the underwear that had undone him and turned him into a single-minded, mouth-breathing, brain-stuttering, idiot.

Pink. It had been light pink. He loved the pink.

Casey's sharp command of, "Eyes up front, soldier," to Chuck when they were driving back from the beach after Carina had made off with the Nadan-I-Noor diamond had been authoritative enough to cause the Intersect to snap his head around, directing a guilty look straight out through the windshield. Casey, however, had already gotten a good peek.

Walker was changing into her wiener costume in the back seat. Any normal, red-blooded guy would take a look. So Casey did. And he saw lace. And a bit of frill. And what looked like soft nylon, the kind of fabric that buzzed slightly if you ran your fingernails over it.

Now, Walker certainly wasn't his type. Not at all. But when it came to panties, it didn't really matter. Casey was going to take a look. He could always imagine they were on someone else, if need be.

Okay, time to focus on the driving. Wouldn't want to have an accident. Chuckling, Casey remembered what his mother always said – what everybody's mother probably said. Put on clean underwear in case you have an accident. Mother had never seen an actual accident scene and Casey hoped she never would. Otherwise, she would know that pretty much nothing stayed clean.

Anyway, it was a good idea to follow that particular advice whether you planned to have an accident or not, because, as he had discovered yet again, Casey never knew when he might run into Carina, who seemed to delight in showing him her underwear. And then cuffing him to the bed and leaving him there for his fellow agents to find. And the irony on this occasion was she had been wearing her bathing suit top. It hadn't even been a bra. Looked like a bra. Looked like bra long enough for Casey to be lured over to the bed and chained up again. Because his brain, as usual when confronted by the lovely things that women wore under their clothes, stopped working.

Wrists shackled over his head, a silk scarf serving as a very effective gag, Casey looked down at his own underwear – a white cotton shirt and his clover boxers. Not sexy. Just serviceable. There was no way that women could be turned on by this little scenario. Not the way the ladies' foundation garments did it for him. Okay, don't go down that road. Because what would be more embarrassing than someone finding him here like this? Someone finding him here looking like he was enjoying himself, of course.

And now here was Walker with the cell phone snapping away. Just great. And all the while, as he was cursing and swearing and pleading with her to release him, the stupid part of Casey's brain was wondering what kind of panties she had on right now.


	5. Casey vs The Sizzling Shrimp

Defection. The one word that just was not in Major John Casey's vocabulary. Unless it was applied to an enemy agent. Like Mei-Ling Cho.

Casey figured defection became a viable option, though, if the government you had sworn to be loyal to suddenly forgot their end of the deal and let your family members get kidnapped. And then wrote them off as collateral damage. Good thing Casey had never been in that position. His family was safe.

Must be why the whiz-kid started to get all weepy and _Days of Our Lives_ over a Chi-Com agent he didn't even know. A woman trained to kill him without even chipping a nail. Someone who could gut the boy with a pair of chopsticks, then turn around and bat those pretty, smoky eyes, brush that long, dark, shiny, silky hair over one slim shoulder, maybe run a stiletto-heeled foot up a man's leg under the restaurant table, and then – whoa! Where had that come from?

Professional, professional, Major John Casey's a professional. The job. Concentrate, concentrate. There. Throat's a little dry. Clearing it now.

Well, when this was all over – mmmm, Ellie's guacamole is really good, I wonder what – focus! When this was all over, maybe in the interests of, um, international relations, er, and American hospitality or – oh, hell, if Casey got lucky, maybe Mei-Ling'd let him play with her guns!


	6. Casey vs The Sandworm

They really had taken over the world. The nerds. Eggheads. Braniacs. It was unsettling. Against the natural order, even. Casey, for the first time in his life, felt out of step.

When he was growing up, everything was as it should be. "Alpha Male" meant raw muscle, gym sweat, callous disregard for the property and feelings of others, particularly the gals, and lots of primal, animal sex with any and all said females within pheromone range.

The losers, dweebs, geeks, nerds and ugly chicks knew their place, which was doing Casey's homework for him while he got grabby with the head cheerleader behind the football stadium bleachers. Ah, the halcyon days of his youth.

Now he was turning into Team Chuck's fat kid, relegated to sitting in his apartment alone at night, listening to that walking computer Bartowski get all the action. Thankfully, there hadn't been any non-cover action. Yet. Casey wasn't sure he could handle listening to _real_ fanboy sex over his surveillance system.

He wondered casually if Chuck would moan "Leia" while in the throes of passion then scolded himself because now he actually knew who Leia Organa was. The damn nerd was starting to rub off on him. Casey shuddered and made a mental note to shoot somebody in the near future.

Casey let the scowl on his face smooth out as he relaxed back in his mother of a big man chair and sipped at a glass of scotch. He wasn't stupid. Man can't be stupid and be able to fly three different types of helicopter, six jets, blind field strip anything that would propel a bullet or a tranq dart, lead a black ops team into enemy territory and come out with the team intact and all the appropriate notches on his belt, even live for 23 months in deep cover in the Baltics without a whisper from the Commies that indicated they even knew he was there. But all of that required linear thinking.

Chuck and his cerebrally gifted friends, like this trained chimpanzee Lazslo Mahnovski, who had clobbered his CIA handler and escaped from the man-zoo where they had been holding him, didn't think in a straight line. And no matter how hard Casey tried to keep up, Chuck would always be not just a step ahead but light years ahead, spouting lines from _Wrath of Khan_ – Casey sighed and his shoulders sagged as he realized he now knew what that was as well – and leapfrogged through the logic of a situation in a completely illogical way that usually left Casey's head reeling.

But in the end, after Chuck had finished flashing and figuring and finding the key or the clue or the essential conundrum that would help him to solve whatever mystery lay between the agent and yet another notch on his NSA belt, it was Casey who knew how to wrap it up, physically tag the bad guy, and haul him or her off to a place where the big brass could take over.

So in effect, the brain, while very useful, was only good up to a point, and after that point, that's where the brawn stepped in. So there was that.

Casey took another sip of his drink and smirked smugly to himself. Yeah, let's see the computer-cranium do the physical stuff. Bet he couldn't fire the gun, knock out the bad guy, get the girl.

Wait a minute. Casey had heard Walker say it while he was monitoring Chuck's bedroom. "Well, we are a real couple, we're just a different sort of a couple." Even if he didn't know it yet, the pencil-necked Einstein wanna be _was_ getting the girl.

Casey scowled abruptly into his drink as his world tilted once more at a perfect 45 degree angle.


	7. Casey vs The Alma Mater

_Gotta talk to Walker about what happened in that classroom yesterday. She could'a gotten us both killed, lying like that. Half a mag. And she only had one round left. And me with two. Good thing the egghead squad arrived when they did. Hmmpfh._

_Mmmm, bit more salt, I think, then turn the heat down._

_Yeah, stupid move on her part. Should know better than to fudge on ordnance tallies. Musta learned it from Larkin. Damn kids. Always gotta play. Damn civilians. Sorta civilians._

_Stir, lid on, simmer for, oh, say, ten more minutes? That oughta do it._

_Ow!_

_Oven mitt, lid on, there. Where's my glass of wine?_

_Ah, love my chair. Wine's a bit fresh. I'll have to ask Ellie what's good from around here._

_Oh, yeah, Walker trying to buy us both new assholes. Don't know why she did it, but it took some balls. Girls with balls. Don't run into too many of them. Wait. This is LA. Snerk._

_I mean girls with grit._ True Grit_. John Wayne. Love that movie. John Marion Wayne. Girl's name. Girls with balls and men with girls' names. Funny._

_Wine tastes better as you go._

_So why did she do it? Why did she lie? Because it was fun? We were about to get shot full of holes to buy the kid some time, save the Intersect, do our jobs. No need to lie. I could see that we wouldn't'a come out of it. Like _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_, at the end, when they die in a hail of bullets._

_I'd be Butch Cassidy, though. I'm better with the quips. That'd make Walker The Sundance Kid, I guess. And Bartowski is Etta Place, horny schoolteacher. Smirk. Appropriate._

_But why lie? We've been working well together lately. And she's not as green as agents usually are when they're that young._

_Wait a minute. Can't be._

_She said that so I wouldn't be scared. No. Yes. No. Yes._

_Yes._

_Imagine, Walker trying to make it easier for me. I've been on more missions than she's blown out birthday candles, for cryin' out loud. And she thought I'd be scared._

_Well, I guess I was. A little._

_Thanks, Walker._

John Casey lifted his glass and raised his eyes a bit towards the ceiling, pausing a moment before draining the last of the wine and getting up to go back to the kitchen so he could finish preparing his evening meal.


	8. Casey vs The Truth

Casey was feeling somewhat giddy. He actually giggled a little under his breath then gasped slightly when he realized what he had done, shot a hand to his mouth, looked around the Buy More guiltily, then lowered his hand as though he had touched it to a hot stove instead of his mouth when it occurred to him how silly he must look standing there acting like a giant adolescent girl. Good thing there was nobody in the home appliance section to witness it.

Straightening his shoulders, he cleared his throat and assumed a fearsomely nasty scowl and, for good measure, furrowed his brow to the deepest creases possible atop the bridge of his nose. He snuck a peek at the shiny surface of a toaster to make sure his scary face was back and had to suppress the urge to allow his mouth to curve into a grin at the sight. They could probably use him as a "before" picture in a Botox ad. No. Stop it. No more chuckling. Serious NSA agent now.

Snickle. Damn, that one had just slipped out.

Maybe it was the after-effects of the Sodium Pentothal or even of the antidote that was still making him feel a bit woozy. Or maybe it was because, when she couldn't help but tell the truth, Walker had called him "partner". The toaster was grinning back at him now.

Casey hadn't had a for-real partner for a long time. Some psych doc had classified him for solo work just a few years out of the Academy so he had actually only had one partner before, and even that one hadn't lasted too long. Guy had got himself shot and killed buying time so Casey could complete the mission. Gave them both medals for it, one posthumously, of course. Fat lot of good that had done the man. His widow and two little kiddies hadn't seemed as impressed with it as the big brass had been, either.

So now Casey's memory ranged back over his brief first partnership. The camaraderie, the closeness. Figuring out tactics, working together seamlessly like a well-oiled machine, sharing a couple of beers on downtime. Just being there for each other.

Not that they had ever discussed _feelings_. That would have been past weird. But Casey knew and the other agent knew. They just knew. That's what partners did.

Feeling the excitement well up again despite his best efforts to quell it, Casey figured now was a good time to do something partner-ish. Begin to test out this new working relationship with Walker. See how it felt again and if it was just as good as he remembered from before.

Casey pulled his cell phone from his pocket and speed dialed. She would be in the Wienerlicious right about now throwing a batch of burnt weenies into the trash, probably. Boy, as good an agent as his new _partner_ was turning out to be, she sure was a lousy cook. Semi-grin.

Okay, clear the throat again, deep voice with a gruff edge, sound the part of the more experienced and senior authoritative _partner_.

"I meant to ask you. When you were affected, did you say anything to compromise yourself?"

When Walker's answer came over the phone, clear and without hesitation, with no effort at concealment and, more importantly, no apparent embarrassment, it was then that he knew. She had used her Sodium Pentothal resistance training to lie to Bartowski about something or other while Casey had been out of earshot but she hadn't lied to him, her _partner_. Ooh, made him a bit goosepimply just thinking about it.

_STOP IT!_ (still grinning on the inside) hee.


	9. Casey vs The Imported Hard Salami

Somebody might as well be getting some. It probably wasn't going to be Casey. And though his partner had a sad history of playing where she worked, that was just a bad idea on so many different levels. Walker was female, above the age of consent, undeniably hot (if you liked blondes) and, as Casey glanced at her watching the Intersect on the video hookup beside him in the van, more than a little hot to trot, but come on, she was his partner. Casey didn't go in for professional incest. So the only one in Casey's new little family who seemed poised for some action was Chuck.

And Casey had done his best to help. For one thing, it might settle the nerd down a bit. Lord knows Casey still remembered his adolescence and what it could do to a guy only being allowed to look but never touch. He remembered the other side of the coin as well, how much clearer the mind became and how the world magically sorted itself out into the two categories of black and white that Casey preferred over the red heat haze of unfulfilled sexual desire.

The rose had been genius, if Casey said so himself. Women were suckers for that sort of thing. But the pièce de résistance, even though Chuck was unaware that he was in possession of the secret weapon, was Casey's lucky guitar pin. Less than a minute to fit the listening device to it and – voilà! – Chuck was all set as LA's newest ladykiller.

Okay, so the pin looked a little out of date. Lou's ex-boyfriend had made a joke about it right away. But nobody wore pins these days so where else could a bug be conveniently hidden? And Casey was leery about underestimating the power of his lucky pin. It had never let him down when he had been Chuck's age.

Especially when he wore it with the pastel pink jacket. No buttons, sleeves rolled up to expose his densely hirsute forearms. Oh, and the light beige sheer jersey tank top. Again, low scoop front. Let the ladies see the testosterone in the form of a well-thatched chest. Some gold trinkets on a chain to reflect the disco's flashing strobes. And tight pants of some stretchy material, snugged high up. No question, in spite of the fey color combination, which were the boys and which were the girls. No, siree. Mullet, check. Loafers, no socks, check. And, of course, the pin.

Well, maybe the pin had just been frosting on the cake. But it was still lucky. And Casey had gotten lucky every time he wore it. So it was difficult to decide whether it had been the pin, his youthful vigor, the alcohol, the music, or the fact that the girls his age were more than a little eager for it.

Nah, Casey decided as he munched on his sandwich and watched the monitor, it had been the pin. The pin, for sure. His lucky pin.

The pin that Chicken-Neck had just tossed into a vodka glass so it could move closer to Stavros Demitrios and his father. Oh, well, at least they would get the intel they needed.

But the nerd had better not whine to Casey about his non-existent love life. After all, Casey had tried his best.


	10. Casey vs The Nemesis

Of all the stupid rookie mistakes. Leaning in like that. Didn't matter whether Bartowski and Larkin had been frat brothers at Stanford or could both speak some kind of gibberish space language. You just don't get that close. Or at least not more than once. Because you either learned right quick what could happen if you did or you died.

Fortunately for Casey, after the encounter with Larkin, the Intersect was still alive. Unfortunately for Casey, after the encounter with Larkin, the Intersect was still alive. Damn baby-sitting assignment. Why didn't the NSA just put him out of his misery and give him a desk job where he could get fat and tell the same old spy stories over and over again to his peers while they sat in a run-down bar and all got drunk together to numb the pain?

Instead, here he was, on the sidelines, benched, as it were, while the kids took over. Had all the fun. The excitement. Took all the bullets. Well, that was one part Casey could probably do without.

But the rest of it sure sounded nice. Working on his own again, deep cover, meeting exciting people, many of whom wanted you dead. Too far away to get daily instructions from the head office. There was a thought that Casey whispered to himself, if it was even possible to do that. Beckman was his boss, a ranking officer, and so she automatically deserved respect and deference. But Casey sure missed the almost total control that a deep cover mission placed into his more-than-capable hands.

He thought of Bryce in that tux on his way to the Consulate dinner and pictured the young spy in his mind's eye. The face turned into Casey's, and he imagined himself making his way smoothly among the diplomatic crowd, his suit impeccably fitted to his broad shoulders, highlighting his confident bearing and concealing his whip-toned muscles at the same time. Bow slightly and kiss a soft, well-manicured hand here – don't let that giant diamond ring poke your eye out – share a cigar and an off-color joke with a group of men there. Just as you're getting back into the rhythm, you see the very subtle code signal that indicates a door at the far end of the room. You approach it casually, check quickly to make sure nobody is paying attention and, quick as a wink, you're through the opening and off to some exotic location for months, maybe years, living the life.

Casey sighed. To the senior NSA field agent, it sounded just like heaven.

Casey shook his head a bit to clear it and smirked at himself. No more time for dreams. His reality, it seemed, was going to take all of his attention. Well, maybe not quite all. Casey could always find opportune moments here and there to yank Chuck's chain. That was always fun. And the way Bartowski was starting to sass him back and at the same time wearing his heart on his sleeve about Walker just gave Casey that many more chances to exercise his dry and cutting wit. It wasn't deep cover or a strategic black ops mission, but it would have to do for now.


	11. Casey vs The Crown Vic

Orders are orders. Walker knew that even if Bartowski didn't. So why was she so quick to disobey a direct order? Oh, yeah, she was getting broody.

Casey had never figured out why the nesting instinct was so strong in some people, why they would opt for a so-called "normal life," as Walker had called it. Casey's definition of "normal life" went something like this: dead-end job that you hated, massive mortgage, bills out the wazoo, a few nasty, smelly rugrats that turned into ungrateful, money-sucking little bastards as they got older, capped off with a fussy, demanding shrew of a wife who routinely withheld sex as a means of controlling a guy, that is if he even wanted to touch her after she had spent a few years emasculating the poor slob.

Look at Bartowski. Whipped already. And for what in return, exactly? The privilege of an eyeful of Walker, some handholding and the occasional fake embrace and peck on the cheek. What a chump.

The kid was obviously suffering, though. And so too, oddly enough, was Walker. The way they looked at Casey with that pathetic kicked-puppy expression told him everything he needed to know about the situation and definitely more than he wanted to know.

Casey had just about been knocked over the first time Walker pulled that face in front of him with the teary eyes, the corners of her mouth turned down and looking so sad. He'd had to get her back in line with the snappy patriot speech. It had worked this time. God help him and this great nation when that speech didn't work anymore, that's all Casey had to say about the matter.

Could you imagine, Bartowski-Walker spawn running around underfoot, hacking computers and throwing knives and being generally annoying? Ha! The end of civilization, in Casey's estimation. Bartowski insisting on going out for donuts because that was his idea of friendship, sharing small sugary deep-fried pastries while classifying Casey grunts.

It might not be all bad, though. They could detail a new Crown Vic together. It would be the least the Intersect could do after blowing up his baby. Get his own Beastmaster and have the nerd clan over for a barbeque on a Sunday afternoon. Casey's wife would serve cocktails and his kids would line up, all freshly washed and dressed, to give their dad a big hug and a kiss before going off to play with Chuck and Sarah's kids. Yeah, now that he thought about it, that might be –

Hey, hold on, wait!

Casey's brows beetled into a fierce scowl as he reminded himself firmly that he hated this assignment. He hated the Buy More. He hated Bartowski. He hated working with a partner who acted like a loose cannon. And now he hated that there wasn't even enough of his car left to throw onto a scrap heap. But his expression softened a little as he let his imagination wander for just a moment longer to envision a little girl with long curly brown hair, bright blue eyes, a sunny smile, and a big hug and kiss for her daddy.


	12. Casey vs The Undercover Lover

_**For added reading pleasure, check out **_**Casey vs The Resurrected Heart, **_**which wasn't written for the Chuck Me Mondays Challenge but fits nicely as a companion piece and an introduction, of sorts, to this chapter. You can find the link through my profile page.**_

* * *

Casey waited impatiently in the hallway, checking left and right while Ilsa unlocked her hotel room door and left him there for a moment to make sure nobody was inside. He thought he had mentally prepared himself for their unplanned romantic reunion during the elevator ride, but it still took him a bit by surprise when Ilsa leaned back out past the door frame to grab his hand, tugging it and dragging his lips to hers at the same time as she pulled him inside the room, moving backwards and closing the door behind them.

Casey hadn't been a hundred percent sure until that moment whether her entanglement with Victor Federov was on the level, but here she was, kissing him with the same urgent passion she had displayed during their short but idyllic time together in Grozny. A time when they had spent most of their days in bed and most of their evenings in cafes gazing into each other's eyes before racing breathlessly back to their hotel room. A time that had been, for Casey, an all-too-brief interlude of selfless, unguarded love before he thought he had lost her forever in that terrible bomb blast.

He brought himself abruptly back to the moment as they both struggled to keep their footing long enough to make it to the bed and fell onto its welcoming surface. The sound of squeaky springs only served to increase Casey's heightening excitement as Ilsa's low moans and questing hands reminded him of what it was to make love to a woman because he wanted to. Not for a training exercise, not for a mission, not even just for the relief and release from the prolonged periods of celibacy Casey's job often required. But because her dark eyes, soft curves and female scent called to the basic maleness in him until the only thing he could do was respond.

And, boy, was Casey responding. There was a shudder in his deep, throaty pleas for more of Ilsa's touch, more of her kiss, more of her supple, warm body next to his. He hadn't remembered reacting like this since he was a teenager, trembling all over just at the thought of a girl touching him _there_ and wanting to experience simultaneously and forever the delicious agony of anticipation and the satiety of complete fulfillment.

For the flash of a moment, just as Ilsa's hand was moving to his belt, it occurred to Casey that he could have this, what he was feeling now, all the time. Ilsa could be his alone and he hers. It would be relatively simple, actually. He'd just have to quit the NSA, leave Walker and the Intersect behind. Go away somewhere with this woman who could make him feel humble and invincible at the same time, a woman who was getting herself mixed up with a Russian crime boss and possibly putting herself in great danger. He could devote himself to her protection. She wouldn't even have to know that he had been a government agent. Maybe the NSA could set him up as a real energy consultant. He could take a crash course in environmental science to start with and then go after proper credentials.

He could make a life for the two of them. A life with this intelligent, witty, talented, gorgeous, sexy woman who was very quickly robbing him of the power of coherent thought as she began to do that thing he remembered, that thing where she put her hands –

Suddenly, a strange sound impinged on what little consciousness Casey was still in control of. It was music. It was strange, tinny, bouncy music. _The Mexican Hat Dance_. Both he and Ilsa abruptly stopped moving on the bed, senses turned outside of themselves again, until Casey located where the noise was coming from. It was coming from under the bed. Which, of course, meant only one thing.

_"Bartowski!"_


	13. Casey vs The Marlin

Casey didn't do gentle. It wasn't what he had been hired for, it wasn't what he had been trained for, and it certainly wasn't the first thing that popped into his mind when on a mission.

Consider his recruitment to the NSA. He had just returned from a deployment in the Middle East after a lucky field promotion had bumped him up from the rank of captain. Their unit had suffered losses, but when his ranking officer, Major Henshaw, had submitted his report, he had praised Casey's cool head under fire and the decisive leadership skills that had kept those losses to a minimum. How had it gone? Oh, yeah. "John Casey, CPT, displayed great strength of character and unassuming heroism while in the field, which allowed the men under his command to complete their assigned maneuvers with textbook efficiency and minimal loss of personnel."

Here's what had happened. Including Casey, there were eight of them. They were to take out whatever was spraying fire into the main body of U.S. troops as quickly as possible. And they were expendable. Casey made sure his men were all properly hyped and ready to go, led the charge, and showed the boys how easy it really was to blow a guy's head off at point blank range. And then another and another. The two soldiers who had been able to make it across the open square behind Casey took care of the remaining three unfriendlies, picked their dead and wounded up on the way back, and were given a heroes' welcome at the base, promoted, and immediately shipped Stateside.

Then Casey was called in to Washington and not told why. Whatever it was was happening in the Pentagon, and he broadened his chest even more than usual to be walking down these halls, his row of medals glinting under the overhead fluorescent lights.

The security officer guided him to an inside room and asked him to sit, sir, it wouldn't be long, sir, and left him there to cool his heels while Casey waited for he didn't yet know what. When the door finally opened, Casey sprang to his feet upon seeing the uniform, then stood rigidly at attention and saluted smartly when his eyes caught stars. Before his gaze came to be directed horizontally towards the wall opposite, his brain registered the impression of short, red hair, female, and older. Tacked onto the end of this was a strong vibe of Iron Lady.

Casey's salute was returned and the woman asked him to relax and sit as she took a seat on the opposite side of a table in the middle of the room. A file was open in front of her, and she flipped through a few pages as if refreshing her memory before closing the folder and shoving it to one side. Then she regarded him for a full minute, unblinking.

"I am General Diane Beckman," she began. When he made no response, Casey thought he detected approval on her face before she continued. "Your recent performance in the field leads me to believe you have qualities that could be put to better use in a different capacity."

She paused again, this time seeming to consider Casey's face before looking deeply into his eyes.

"What would you do for your country, Major?"

Casey answered, clearly and without hesitation, "Whatever is asked of me, Ma'am."

"If what is asked of you could be labeled as morally repugnant or reprehensible, would you still feel the same way?"

Again, he repeated, "Whatever is asked of me, Ma'am."

The general nodded once sharply and stood, which caused Casey to shoot to his feet. A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips before it disappeared entirely, and as she turned away to go to the door, she snapped out, "Good. Follow me, then, Major," and led Casey out of the room then out of the Pentagon to a waiting staff car, where they got in and drove to the headquarters of the NSA so Casey could start his training as a cold-blooded government assassin as soon as possible.

* * *

And now Walker was telling him to be gentle. Not going to happen. Chuck had to be told what was going on. Casey could almost see the nerd's brain chugging through what was in front of him in the aircraft hangar. There was the entire contents of the Buy More. There was Walker with a furrowed brow and a look of great concern stuttering over some kind of break-it-to-him-gently explanation for what was happening. She was so worked up, she was eventually unable to speak. Thank goodness the kid had finally asked for it straight. And that's how he got it from Casey. No sympathy, no pity, no sugar coating. A bit of snark, but that couldn't be helped under the circumstances.

As far as Casey was concerned, when the Band-Aid that was holding a guy's life together had to be ripped off, you might as well get it over with and tug for all you're worth. It might hurt like hell for a bit but at least it was dignified.

And here he was, in the same situation again. They needed to talk to Jeff and Lester in a hurry. Chuck was trying with the gentle and getting nowhere because thumb wrestling was obviously so much more important than national security. Hauling Frick and Frack to the Home Theater Room by the scruffs of their scrawny necks seemed like the thing to do.

But now they were there, and when confronted with the unenviable task of interrogating Jeff and Lester about the stupid fish that probably held intel damaging to the whole Intersect operation, what the hell was he supposed to do?

It was classic.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," Casey growled, giving each of the nerds in front of him his best steely glare as the thought _Please pick the hard way_ ran through his head.

Luckily for the Odd Couple, Chuck was here to help out again with the gentle stuff. Casey watched and listened carefully to see if he could pick up any tips. Nope, nothing. Because gentle, once again, wasn't working, and even Chuck could see that as he finally, figuratively and through gesture, washed his hands of the affair and let Casey take over.

Unfortunately, they broke in about a millisecond, but at least Casey and Chuck got the information they were looking for, which was that Morgan had taken the damn fish with him, and they set off to Chuck's apartment in search of the marlin.

Chuck to the rescue again with the gentle stuff when Ellie came in and caught Casey about to gut her sofa. He wisely decided to keep his mouth shut and watched as Chuck found out from his sister what they needed to know. Maybe there was something to the less violent approach after all. Casey made a mental note to inquire at the NSA about courses for brushing up on his people skills.

And then it was interrogation time again and Morgan's turn. Let's try the gentle thing, a carrot instead of a stick, or, in this case, grape soda.

Casey wondered if there actually was steam coming out of his ears as he listened to the scraggly troll drone on about who-knew-what. Finally, his limit reached, Casey decided a threat was in order. He mentally patted himself on the back for the self-control that allowed him to make the threat _before_ carrying out the promised punishment, but the subject of his interrogation escaped before Casey could get the information he was looking for.

Casey stalked out of his interview with Conway, which had been mercifully short, and strode around the Buy More once again in search of Grimes. No messing around this time. Ask once. If correct answer not forthcoming, apply shinbone with appropriate force to vulnerable body parts. See? Worked like a charm. Cancel mental note about people skills seminars.

* * *

And now that the mission was a wrap, one last time to be not-gentle. As Casey stood behind Walker and watched Chuck and Ellie and Devon through the window, he knew that, although his words might sound cruel to an outsider, Sarah would understand that he said them in an effort to ease her troubled state of mind and prepare her for the future that he was sure wouldn't be too long in coming to pass.

"We can only keep him here for so long. You realize that, don't you?"

So the best he could do was Casey-gentle, but since sometimes people needed to hear the unvarnished truth, maybe his kind of gentle wasn't so bad after all.


	14. Casey vs The First Date

Man that spray poison almost got me good thing I had the entryway rigged up last month with the hazmat shower and stuff nearby where I could get to it easily in an emergency I thought the syringe of adrenaline behind my favorite picture of Ronald Reagan sorry again sir was a touch of genius if I do say so myself especially since it probably just saved my life cripes but it hurts to plunge a needle into your chest like that I don't remember it hurting that much during training exercises although that was over twenty years ago now boy time flies when you're having fun yeah right this is a whole lot of fun finally getting the good news about the new Intersect about to be up and running and then the general calls back and tells me to follow my prime directive and then I go and open my stupid mouth to defend the stupid nerd and then my commanding officer thinks I'm peeing my pants or something as I try to defend him but I think it was the right thing to do because the kid has acted with honor well and sometimes he got by with dumb luck but that happens on a lot of missions look at me I was distracted by this whole off Chuck thing for just a half hour and what happens I almost get taken out in my prime serves me right for not being on 24/7 hey this adrenaline stuff is great I should ask the general if I can get some pills or something on a regular basis nah she probably wouldn't go for it but anyway here's Chuck's tracker he's at that nice little restaurant that's not too expensive I think I heard Grimes talking about it the other day in the lunchroom wait a minute if Chuck's at a restaurant what do you bet Walker is with him why that skinny kid and my partner are on a real date I bet he thought he could get some fun time in before we get reassigned I mean before Walker gets reassigned and I go back to my squad I'm going to miss working with Walker listen to me getting all sentimental again that's what got me in trouble in the first place feelings and questioning orders and getting distracted dry off hurry quick shorts pants socks shoes tee-shirt out the door quick got to go and make sure they haven't walked into a trap come on baby I know you can do it just a little bit faster Crown Vics ya gotta love 'em but they don't take curves that well at high speeds almost there uh-oh I can see guns what should I do now there's no time to jump out and get to them and it's just me anyway I know I'll ram the car through the window of the restaurant let's hope Bartowski and Walker notice me coming so I don't plow them down too brace for impact this would be a good chance to deliver a funny line let's see break and enter is so 90s how about I thought I told you kids to be home early no no no I know I know –

"Hey, somebody order drive-through?"


	15. Casey vs The Seduction

Casey listened over his headphones as Roan Montgomery ripped oh, so smoothly and suavely into Chuck.

"Perhaps I'm going too fast. Have you had intercourse before?"

It made Casey snigger a bit and wish he could be in the room to add a few well-placed jabs to those that Roan was supplying. After all, Casey hadn't been born with the ability to snark at will. He had learned it at the knee, so to speak, of the master, the man who was currently slurping on an extremely dry martini while he instructed the Intersect in the art of the spy smooch.

Casey was a little surprised at how long it was taking Chuck to arrange his balls in order so he could actually mack on Walker. The NSA agent figured the scrawny dweeb would be all over the blonde at any excuse. Must have something to do with middle-class morals.

It certainly hadn't taken that much encouragement from Roan for Casey to dive into his first Infiltration and Inducement of Enemy Personnel classes. And it hadn't hurt one bit when Casey drew as his partner the incredibly hot agent-in-training Minako Hinata. Incredibly hot but incredibly stupid.

She was forever poking Casey in the eye with her nose as she came in for a kiss or making gross slurping noises and drooling when she was supposed to be acting sexy. Once she even unconsciously raised a knee, bringing her leg up sharply and making contact with Casey's personal equipment. For some reason, Casey lost his enthusiasm for the subject for the duration of that class, and not just because of the ache in his groin and the throbbing pain shooting down his legs but because that was when Roan Montgomery began the campaign of verbal terror against him.

"Come on, Casey, buck up. I bet that's not the first time a woman has given you a shot to the little ones."

After the general laughter had died down, Roan approached and demonstrated with Minako the technique that was the subject of the day's study. When the older agent had released her, Minako's eyes held a look that seemed to Casey to be a combination of lust, love, and the aftereffects of a sleeping pill. From that moment on, Casey was determined to learn how to recreate that look in his partner's or any other woman's eyes.

But try as he might, nothing Casey ever did was good enough under the hawklike gaze of Roan, and the instructor became ever more expressive as he pointed out Casey's errors in front of the other students.

"She's a woman, Casey, not a sack of potatoes. Hold her like a rare flower. Like this."

And, grasping Minako gently about the waist and bending her backwards just a bit, Roan leaned over, his lips a fraction of an inch from the female agent's full, luscious mouth. Just as Minako's chest was beginning to rise and fall at such a rapid rate that Casey thought she might hyperventilate, Roan loosened his grip, letting the woman fall. Casey, making a frantic grab to keep her from hitting the floor, ended up scrambling his arms in the air for a moment before clamping one hand onto Minako's left breast and the other onto her butt, once again setting off the laughter of the class and another riposte from Roan.

"Much better, Casey. Our next scheduled class will be about lawsuits."

And that's how it went from then on. Nothing Casey did in the class, according to Roan, was done correctly and he seemed to take particular delight in demonstrating all the techniques he was teaching with Minako while Casey did a slow burn, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his brow lowered as he watched his partner lapping up what looked to Casey to be moves done exactly the way he had just completed them.

Sometime during the second round of the course, after Roan had failed Casey and Minako the first time, the couple was just completing a series of kisses that were to slowly escalate in intensity so that a mark would be so thoroughly distracted by the end of the sequence that the agent could practically do a soft shoe in front of them and they wouldn't notice. Casey, playing the role of the seducer, was sure he was seeing the beginnings of that look that Minako had had the first day of their first class, that sex-intoxication look, but just as he was about to finish the last warm, wet deep kiss, Roan snatched Minako from Casey's arms and brought her into his own embrace.

"Casey, you kiss like a water buffalo in heat," he declared loudly, and Casey flushed hotly as, once again, his classmates, all a bit younger now, guffawed in amusement and applauded when Roan was done with kissing Minako and detailed her reactions for the class as though he had been the one to produce them.

When Roan had failed Casey and Minako for the second time, Casey wasn't prepared to sit around and take his instructor's abuse anymore. He began a series of "extracurricular" studies, starting with the other women in the class. Only after each one had declared his technique completely effective, told him not to pay any attention to Roan's criticisms, and added to his secret panty collection hidden behind a dresser drawer – each in her turn with strict admonitions not to tell anyone they had given him their undergarments as a souvenir – had Casey's confidence in himself returned so that he was able to ignore Roan's snide comments in class.

Any time one was forthcoming, all Casey had to do was make eye contact with any of the women in the room, give them a twinkle, a bit of a smile, and they would return to him a look that told him in that secret, unspoken language between the sexes that they had a different opinion of Casey's abilities in the bedroom. And if he scanned around the classroom just right, not letting his gaze rest on any one particular woman but including them all, he got back enough positive reinforcement to blow the jockey shorts off of a lesser man.

And if even that wasn't enough to keep him going, Casey could always pull open his secret compartment and enjoy counting and touching the physical evidence of his prowess in all its lacy, frilly and skimpy rainbow-colored glory.


	16. Casey vs The BreakUp

A good agent knows when to draw his weapon.

A good agent knows when to leave it holstered.

A good agent knows when to strike.

A good agent knows when to run away.

A good agent knows when to guard his cover.

A good agent knows when to reveal himself.

A good agent knows when to be badass.

A good agent knows when to be Mr. Nice Guy.

A good agent knows when to be a team player.

A good agent knows when to go it solo.

A good agent knows when to be alert.

A good agent knows when to relax.

A good agent knows when to take a chance.

A good agent knows when to wait for a better opportunity.

A good agent knows when to sneak in undetected.

A good agent knows when to rush the enemy screaming his head off.

A good agent knows when to be dominant.

A good agent knows when to be subservient.

A good agent know when to trust.

A good agent knows when to be suspicious.

A good agent knows when to act like an intellectual.

A good agent knows when to act like a moron.

A good agent knows when to joke.

A good agent knows when to be serious.

A good agent knows when to go for the brass ring.

A good agent knows when to fold and be content with the outcome.

A good agent knows when to act on a full array of facts.

A good agent knows when to act on a hunch.

A good agent knows when to react.

A good agent knows when to be impassive.

A good agent knows when to use physical coercion.

A good agent knows when to use sensual coercion.

A good agent knows when to celebrate a victory.

A good agent knows when to mourn a defeat.

A good agent knows when to obey orders to the letter.

A good agent knows when to bend the rules.

A good agent knows when to work with his enemy.

A good agent knows when to turn his enemy in.

A good agent knows when to take charge.

A good agent knows when to take a back seat.

A good agent knows when to arrive.

A good agent knows when to leave.

Above all, a good agent knows when to keep his mouth shut, and since Casey was not just a good agent but one of the best, when Sarah stood before him bravely confessing her slip-up that had endangered not only the Von Hayes mission, the Intersect mission, but also the lives of three agents, one wealthy civilian and the most valuable intelligence asset in the world, he knew immediately there was only one thing to do. And when he saw that she was expecting some kind of answer from him and his reply of "Hand me that chamois, will you?" had the desired effect of putting his partner completely at ease about the matter, he knew that, even though his actions may not have been strictly according to NSA field procedure, it had still been the correct response under the circumstances.


	17. Casey vs The Cougars

When Casey, wearing his white waiter's coat, snarked in Chuck's ear after Sarah had deliberately poured her wine in the Intersect's lap so he would leave the table, the words carried a fairly dirty connotation. Which, of course, is what Casey had intended. How else would the asset have interpreted, "Not the first American tax dollars wasted on a man's lap?"

But when the mission was a wrap and Casey was once again back in his sanctum sanctorum, otherwise known as his apartment, he recalled the words that had been so appropriate and had seemed so funny to him at the time. But this time when he ran them through his head and he began to remember, they took on an entirely different meaning. A meaning that, instead of making Casey snicker with delight at his own wit, caused him to reach for the half-full bottle of scotch in his liquor cabinet.

He was back in the NSA's rookie agent center waiting with his fellow trainees for the preliminary training lists to be posted, feeling oddly like he had in high school after football tryouts every year. Then, it had been the player position roster. Then, it had been Casey, still on the short side for football and definitely scrawny compared to the boys he was up against for the most coveted spots, searching in vain for his name. Then, he really had been the proverbial fat kid, the last picked for every team. Then, the best he could hope for was waterboy, fetching and carrying for the real stars of the school.

And some things, for some people, it seemed, never really changed. No matter how hard he had tried to be smooth and suave and secret agent-like in spy school, Casey was always picked last for group exercises. His fellow students would even pick that fat chick with the thick glasses over him. It was worse than humiliating. It was diminishing.

So even if it was yet another disappointment for the young man, now tall and broad and to any casual observer full of brash self-confidence, the short skinny kid with the glasses and pimply face – his worn-out and out-of-fashion clothes setting him apart from the cooler kids – squirmed deep inside the man, crying out his anguish at yet again being passed over for the better assignments.

Casey remembered an almost overwhelming desire to tear the offending page from the cork board in the hallway as he read the dreaded words: "Services Covers."

That meant learning how to be a waiter, a bartender, a valet while maintaining cover on a mission. Sommelier, bellboy, chauffeur, personal assistant. Backup and resource man for the star agent. Flunky.

And, boy, during his training, had he wasted a lot of American tax dollars in men's laps. And women's laps. Food, wine, coffee, didn't seem to matter, it always ended up in direct confrontation with gravity and losing. It wasn't as easy as it looked, getting comestibles and potables to stay in their various containers and delivering them to their correct destinations.

But after a lot of in-class and extracurricular practice, Casey had finally mastered the fine art of elegant service to the point where he had been the best in his year. It wasn't the glamor job but the pretty boys (and girls) couldn't function without him, and Casey was finally able to take pride in his work, since he did it so well.

Security guard, croupier, bartender, janitor, any kind of self-effacing service person. Casey could make himself disappear into his cover. And, like any good servant, he could even make himself essentially disappear.

Buy More salesman.

Disc Jockey.

_Well, okay_, Casey thought as he recalled how great it had felt to rock out to teenage tunes from the late '90s during the mission, _sometimes having the services cover wasn't so bad after all_.


	18. Casey vs Tom Sawyer

Casey stripped the seal from a small square of black Lucite covered with engraved code numbers and placed it in clear view. He flipped the row of switches just under the special laptop's screen and established visual contact with a junior officer at the 30th Space Wing Vandenberg Strategic Air Command. Following the officer's clear and unemotional call-out of the arming sequence and directives, Casey inserted his key into the laptop's lock, a twin to the one the officer gripped in his fingers. As the rhythmic, almost hypnotic, countdown began, Casey tightened his fingers around the head of the key.

"Three, two, one, Mark."

The two men turned their keys simultaneously, thereby releasing the security cover over the red button. Yes, it really was red, a detail that the movies actually got right. And, yes, the missile silo hidden away deep within a seemingly abandoned mine shaft was armed and open, a massive ICBM waiting to fulfill its purpose of averting a very nasty and very nuclear World War III.

This is what Casey's military training had prepared him for, and his brain responded to it like coming home. In spite of this, a small part of his attention was not on the job at hand. He was thinking about Walker trying to gain access to that television news station. The station that would broadcast the signal to a rogue satellite. The signal intended to precipitate perhaps the largest-scale carnage in the history of mankind. The carnage that, in precisely 37 seconds, could turn a large part of Southern California, including Casey, into particles so small it would be as though he and it had never existed.

So now was a good time to trust in something, right? Like good old American military know-how and the planning of experienced strategic officers huddled in the Pentagon and training that allowed you to act when all you really wanted to do was soil yourself.

But Walker wasn't military, so she chose to trust Bartowski. She trusted that the leader of a Nerd Herd at a Buy More electronics retailer in Burbank and his band of misfits, playing a video game, of all things, could get to the Missile Command kill screen and access Mr. Morimoto's secret abort code in time to disarm the satellite.

Walker trusted Chuck. Why couldn't Casey?

Was it because it seemed a little ludicrous, a little too 007, accessing a code hidden in a friggin' video game, for goodness sake, to disarm a nuclear warhead? Or was it because the Intersect had an alarming habit of coming through for them time after time using weird nerd logic and methods that Casey, even if he lived to be a hundred, would never have a hope in hell of understanding?

Casey's world was delineated by discipline, logic, hierarchy, respect, reliable, well-maintained weapons, and a by-the-book order. Chuck's world was regulated by – well, Casey wasn't exactly sure. But damned if he didn't just come through again, this time with Morimoto's code.

And that's precisely the word that escaped Casey's lips in a whisper as he watched both the satellite stand down and the ICBM abort.

"Damn."

Well, even if Casey couldn't bring himself to trust the kid yet, he could certainly allow himself to feel respect for what Chuck could do when it came down to the crunch. Not that he was ever going to tell Chuck to his face, mind. Not yet, anyway.


	19. Casey vs The Ex

Casey leaned close to his bathroom mirror as he flossed his teeth and hummed the Marines hymn, "From the Halls of Montezuma." He'd always liked the catchy tune, even if he did make it sound a little like Marvin the Martian coming out of his gaping mouth as he dug deep in the back to clean behind that tricky wisdom tooth at the top left. He was careful to do a good job on this particular evening, though. The pearly whites might come in handy later after Chuck's manufactured date with Jill Roberts was over. The restaurant they had hired out would be full of hot CIA agents – hot female agents, that is – and Casey was hoping for a little downtime after the operation to conduct a private operation of his own.

He chuckled as he discarded the piece of dental floss and rinsed his mouth out with some water. Baring his teeth to the mirror, Casey's lips curved into a grin as his attention turned from his anticipatory smile to the blond wig and soul patch he had donned as a disguise.

_Not bad_, he thought, _for an aging hippie look. What do they call it? Oh, yeah, Metrosexual. Well, there's bound to be at least one agent there tonight who will be able to see past the fake hair. Too bad Bartowski won't be around to witness some real mojo in action._

Casey picked up his toothbrush, squeezed a liberal amount of toothpaste onto it, and started carefully brushing his teeth. Up and down. Gently. Right to the back. Nice minty flavor. Get all the nooks and crannies.

There! Kissing sweet. That was the plan, at least.

Casey rinsed again, rinsed out his toothbrush and set it back in the holder. Picking up the wire frame glasses that completed his disguise, he slipped them over his ears and pushed them up to the bridge of his nose, noting with satisfaction that the CIA had gotten the neutral lenses right and his better-than-20/20 vision was in no way distorted. He grabbed his lapels and resettled his sport jacket onto his shoulders, sucking air in through his teeth as he did so to savor the fresh mint taste, and smiled once more at the mirror.

_You still got it, champ_, he thought with satisfaction before flipping off the light switch and leaving the bathroom with a bounce in his step.

* * *

The next afternoon, Casey rushed into his bathroom full tilt, accidentally slamming his shoulder into the door jamb on the way through and almost knocking over the laundry hamper as he skidded to a halt in front of the sink. His reflection, pale and still a bit shaky from the aftereffects of the Fulcrum agent's virus, telegraphed his panic as he opened the first drawer on the right under the sink and scrabbled around frantically until his fingers located what he was looking for.

As though it were a live grenade or covered in toxic waste or just something extremely disgusting, he lifted the object out and turned as quickly as he could to the other side. Opening the cupboard door under the left of the sink, he then hurled it into the trash bin, slamming the door shut to hide it from sight as fast as possible.

Resting his hands on the counter to allow himself to calm down now, he tentatively looked in the mirror to see a slick of sweat covering his forehead. His tie was loosened and askew, the first couple of buttons on his shirt were undone and, uncharacteristically for Casey, his shirt was also rumpled, the tail on one side hanging out over his belt.

As his breathing slowed and he began to feel a bit more in control, he started to think rationally again. Well, as rationally as he could under the circumstances, anyway. Let's see, baking soda would be a good substitute until he could go to the pharmacy tomorrow. Maybe he could get cinnamon.

Definitely not mint. It would bring the horror back every time he brushed. Never again for mint. Not now that he knew that was the flavor that Chuck used.


	20. Casey vs The Fat Lady

The truth of the matter was Casey missed Chuck. The nerd just wasn't around enough anymore, and although it had surprised Casey to realize, one, that there was something wrong and, two, that it was because the Intersect hadn't been underfoot every second making himself generally annoying, the agent had finally reached the uncomfortable truth that he felt a bit of a void in his life.

Now, to be sure, he could equate the feeling to noticing the lack of pain after a broken bone had healed or the strange way the human brain craved the known over the unknown in hostage situations so that, as a person was dragged out of the dark, rat-infested bamboo hut they had been held in for six weeks to be taken to an unknown destination, they actually preferred the rat-hole, given the choice. But it was still an unexpected emotion for Casey.

And as it niggled in the back of his mind – _I wonder what Chuck's up to now? Hey, if Chuck were here, he could help me with this problem. Damn nerd wouldn't know what to do with a girl if one did sit still for him. Wish he was here so I could bug him about it_ – Casey grew more and more restless and prickly. And it manifested in the usual way, namely, obnoxious, typically lewd, comments. But since Chuck wasn't around to aim them at, Sarah was the one who took the full force of Casey's snark.

Somehow, it was different, though. When Casey riffed off of Chuck, he usually got some smartmouth reply, some kind of defense, a sneer or an even wittier comeback. With Sarah, Casey got carefully worded explanations in an annoyed tone or, worse, big, slightly damp doe eyes. And if a man wasn't in a position to actually give comfort – a hug and a _There, there, honey, here's a tissue_ – then there wasn't anything he could do but back off. That was a clear and unbreakable rule in the guy handbook. Damn women and their tears.

Casey would have been a lot happier if Walker would just haul off and smack him a good one instead. She'd probably be a lot happier too in the long run.

So it was great now that Chuck was back within range and they were standing outside of the opera house nose-to-nose. Casey was just getting warmed up. He started with a list of things he was going to do to the Intersect for losing the all-important flash drive of Fulcrum agents they had retrieved from Guy Lafleur's puzzle boxes. He had a lot of built-up sarcasm to get out of his system and he was on a roll.

"First, I'm going to have you arrested for crimes against your country. Then, I'm going to take you down to Club Gitmo, hang you up by your fingernails, where the boys"­­ –

Then what does the nerd do? Produces a copy of the list and skips off to Jill Roberts to try and solve that other puzzle: how to get back into his ex's panties.

Some days, it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.


	21. Casey vs The Gravitron

Finally! And about time, too. Looked like Bartowski was going to man up.

Casey had never seen a guy so whipped. This Jill chick was a real piece of work and it seems she had spent a lot of energy working the poor sap over. First at Stanford and again right under his and Walker's noses. She must have had honey in all the right places. Or maybe it was a nerds-attract-nerds thing.

Anyway, Chuck had finally figured out that Jill was stringing him along and he was out for revenge. Until, that is, she played the damsel in distress card, at which point Bartowski folded like a house of cards. It really was pitiful to witness.

One minute, he was all I'm going to make her pay, the next, he was making kissing sounds into the phone. In a public place, no less. It was all too much. Walker could take lessons, and that was saying a lot.

On second thought, to give Walker her due, she had been doing a pretty good job of leading Chuck around by the nose until Roberts arrived on the scene. The difference was Jill had access to more than just Bartowski's nose, and guys didn't get how pathetic they were when they turned their upstairs brains off. How obvious it was to everyone but themselves. And how demeaning.

Take Casey, for instance. He had never let that happen. Always in control. Always rational. Never at the mercy of a woman. Definitely never following one around like a puppy asking to be kicked. Well, unless you counted Carina, but there was a perfectly logical explanation for that. And Ilsa. Except he had thought Ilsa was a civilian at first and "Sugar Bear" isn't really a sissy pet name. You know, it has "Bear" in it, after all, very manly, and everything had worked out in the end. And that girl in the fifth grade who had promised to show him – well, you know how that one goes, except he was the only one who wound up showing anything. That episode had been unfair and more than a bit embarrassing, especially when it turned out he had been set up and the whole class was there to witness it. But it wasn't proof that Casey wasn't always the one in charge. Just unlucky.

Hold on. Damn. Tatiana, Liz, Corky, Gloria, Constance (now there was one who hadn't lived up to her name), Saabira, Laila, Chantal...

Hmm.

Okay, well, maybe he had let one or two women take the lead from time to time. Didn't mean he wasn't still a man. A man who knew his own mind. A man with authority. A man with dignity.

A man who would trade a bit of his dignity right about now for some female company, because the way Bartowski attracted trouble, it looked like he and Walker were going to have to baby-sit the stupid Intersect forever.


	22. Casey vs The Sensei

After all these years of living his life and all the people who didn't get it, Casey was unsettled to his core that it was Charles Irving Bartowski who finally uncovered the truth.

When the nerd tapped into the NSA agent's inner rage in Ty Bennett's dojo, it wasn't because Casey had become enraged that Chuck said Casey loved him, that Chuck made him angry. Not at all. It was because, once again, Casey had forgotten this one ironclad rule in life: Don't get close.

The trick was to use people before they used you. Leave them before they left you. Let them down before they did it to you.

Lash out with sarcasm, hit them, shoot them if you have to, but push them away for all you're worth, because, sure as God made little green apples, the day would come when they would lie, cheat, steal, disappear, and take a piece of you with them.

And it didn't even have to be intentional or malicious. People were just made that way. Even Casey. Except that, although he could be accused of many behaviors that were considered too unpolished for normal society, hypocrisy wasn't one of them. He hurt people when he meant to hurt them and they knew exactly when it was happening. Kind of merciful, in a way, actually. Much better than having people sneak under your skin, like scabies, and then find that all the time they were just eating away under there and becoming harder and harder to get rid of.

Like Walker. Like Bartowski. Made him itch just to think about it.

And all his bluster and all his meanness hadn't done the trick. It had all just bounced off whatever nerd force field Bartowski carried around with him that made him oblivious to all the bad shit that everybody around him was busy manufacturing. Talk about a cockeyed optimist!

It had been so easy to get out of Castle by pretending to have lady feelings about Bennett. The nerd had melted on the other end of the phone like an ice cream cone on a hot day. And in spite of the threats, in spite of showing the boy an actual bullet to give him an intimidating visual, Chuck had still followed Walker to help him out. Waltzed right into the middle of it, as usual.

Casey might chuckle about that if he wasn't so PO'd about the whole thing.

Anyway, he had been found out. By Chuck. Because Casey didn't have a center full of turmoil, as Bennett had said. He didn't even have a center full of anger. He had a teeny tiny weensy center that nobody had even seen before, not even his mother. Hell, he didn't even look at it himself anymore, hadn't for years. Too dangerous. But in the few minutes it had taken him and Chuck to walk from their cars to the apartment courtyard, Bartowski had managed to uncover it by using a funny parody of a conversation that normal people might have had after an experience like that evening's.

Casey was standing just inside the open door of his apartment, about to close it, when, before he could stop himself, he murmured the most dangerous words in the English language: "Thank you."

And there it was, for all to see. Thank goodness only Chuck was there to see it. And see it he did, judging by the self-satisfied gloating he was indulging in just outside the closed door.

Because Casey's essential foundation, deep, deep down inside, inside the cool surface of a calculating, savvy agent, inside the turmoil of anger and rage, and even inside a small circle of serene calm, was a warm, soft core made entirely of ooey-gooey marshmallow.


	23. Casey vs The Delorean

"It's personal."

Casey knew as he said those words to Chuck what they were supposed to mean. For any normal person, they meant disposable free time, fun and relaxation, time to lie comfortably in bed and sleep in or to lie comfortably in bed with some attractive company.

But not for Casey. He couldn't remember the last time he had really relaxed, at least not on this assignment. It had been so long since he had kicked back and had some fun that it was as if he had lost the knowledge of what relaxation was. Really relaxing, not just grabbing a couple of hours' rest while his mind ticked over like an anxious clock, worrying about strategic plans or ordnance or whether or not Bartowski was going to pull some stupid ass stunt that would create even more work than Casey already had to contend with.

Good thing Walker had turned into the primary wrangler on this assignment or Casey's foot would have been lodged permanently up the idiot's sitting down spot. Ouch.

He'd tried to hook up after hours recently but it hadn't really worked out as planned. The woman was a CIA agent who had been called in to pose as a restaurant customer so the Intersect could pretend to be someone he wasn't for that Jill Roberts chick. What was the agent's name again? Or at least her cover name? Oh, yeah, Barbie, believe it or not. And she had certainly been attractive in all the same ways as her little plastic namesake. And about as plastic overall, too, but that didn't really matter to a guy, did it?

Well, as it turned out, it had mattered, because Casey found himself yearning for Ilsa Trinchina and her lush, earthy sensuality. And her wit and intelligence, strangely enough. Becoming emotionally mature with age sure could be inconvenient. And it definitely felt odd for Casey to mentally run through the flight manual for an F-18 so he could bring the night's activities to their expected conclusion and get out of there. First time he'd ever had to resort to that kind of thing. Kinda perverted, actually. Okay, disturbingly perverted.

It had been rather exciting in its own way, though. Made his neck warm up right now just thinking back on it. Apparently it had also been far too long since Casey had flown any aircraft. Must inquire of the general about some airtime, maybe under the pretext of maintaining his skills.

So... Clearing throat.

Personal time. And the lack of it.

And yet that wasn't exactly true either. Casey had time off fairly regularly, just like Sarah did. It was what he did with his free time that was the issue here. Instead of going to see a movie he would inventory his equipment. Instead of taking in the latest exhibition at the museum he would review the Castle operations manual. Instead of just soaking in a hot bath and turning off his brain for a while he would check and re-check the large collection of surveillance files and even go out in the middle of the night to oil a camera mount or check a microphone array to make sure that any recordings would come out crystal clear.

It was when Sarah's dad, Jack Burton, had called Casey "Cop Face" that the realization hit him. He had become the job. He had become the job so thoroughly that he looked like the job. Casey hoped that it was only an experienced con man like Burton, someone good at evaluating people and categorizing them quickly, who could see it that clearly. Might as well have "NSA" tattooed on his forehead if anyone less perceptive could identify him as a narc so quickly.

And even as these thoughts ran through his head, Casey still could see an upside to all of this. No personal life to speak of because he had dedicated himself to public service, all his life energy focused on the task at hand because it was a vitally important trust that he had been handed, one that quite often involved the safety of millions and the continued wellbeing of this great nation that he loved so much.

Those two words, "It's personal," started to take on an entirely different meaning when weighed against these considerations, because for John Casey, whatever the assignment he was entrusted with, it was always deeply personal. Because doing his job and doing it well was what made him want to get out of bed every morning.


	24. Casey vs Santa Claus

Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

Who'd have thought one little missing toe could hurt so much? Ellie had said he could get along without it, and that was probably true, but it seemed a shame after all the active combat Casey had been through to ruin a perfect set now.

And speaking of useless appendages, Casey was going to have to have another little chat with Bartowski, maybe alone. Maybe in one of the cells of Castle. With the surveillance off.

It was fun to think about it for a couple of minutes, anyway, as Casey sat on a box near the store's Christmas tree trying to get his sock and shoe back on over the now-bloodied bandage that the doctor had carefully wrapped around the little ragged stump that used to be his toe.

Suddenly, Casey recalled a memory of his mother telling him when he was about sixteen years old of the baby game she used to play with him. "This Little Piggy," she announced in an embarrassingly maternal voice at an excruciatingly carrying volume, adding a long and detailed description of how he would squirm and giggle, his small fists clenched tightly and waving in the air. She mentioned that it had been one of his favorite games, along with Peek-A-Boo and Kootchie-Kootchie-Koo, when he was just a tiny baby. The memory stung, since his mother informed him of this little bit of nostalgia in front of a large crowd of friends and family gathered together for Christmas, including Amy from his class. The one he wanted so badly to impress. The one he was planning to ask to be his steady girlfriend.

"Wee, wee, wee, all the way home!" his mother recited with delight while containing her ample bosom in the bodice of an elaborate red velvet dress with one hand and rocking backwards and forwards in her chair as she led the general laughter from the room.

Casey's face reddened a bit at the memory but his expression soon softened as he remembered more. His mother's happiness at having a new dress for the holidays instead of her old house dresses. The love that radiated from her eyes when she glanced over at her mortified teenage son who was trying to disappear into the carpet. And best of all, Amy's pulling him into the closet afterwards, armed with a bunch of mistletoe and telling him how sweet it was that he had been such a loving and loved baby. She even offered to play a bit of "wee, wee, wee" with Casey in the dark among the coats and boots and, much to Casey's shocked surprise, she didn't seem to be interested in his toes.

So when Chuck convinced Ned Rhyerson to allow everyone a phone call to a loved one, Casey was already thinking about his mother and how much she would love to hear from him. He hobbled around behind the Christmas tree, smiling now with the anticipation of being able, in some small way, to brighten the day of the woman who had given him life. Wish her a Merry Christmas, since he couldn't be with her again this year. Maybe even remind her of a time long past when toes were meant to be wiggled by a loving parent cooing nonsense and not shot off by a crazed maniac wielding a gun he didn't even know how to use properly.

Casey dialed and put the phone to his ear and, as he slid farther behind the tree so nobody could hear him, cleared his throat – which had begun to tighten up for some strange reason – before he spoke.

"Mother? Johnny-Boy."


	25. Casey vs The Third Dimension

If Bartowski was a typical example of a normal civilian, then Casey was thankful he wasn't one. His nerves would be completely shot in about five minutes.

Screaming like a girl in the middle of the night after murmuring Walker's name in a highly non-professional manner. Freaking out in the Buy More when every second counted to dispose of the grenade that Achmed Gambir had planted there. Skipping out with the rock star who should have been snoozing in Casey's apartment for several hours and not able to voluntarily further embalm his liver while aiding and abetting the loss of Bartowski's party animal nerdginity at the hands of two sexy but dumb weapons experts. And finally, putting said rock star in immediate danger by allowing him onto a stage in full view of the aforementioned grenade assassin.

What was wrong with the Intersect, anyway?

Well, it was pretty obvious to Casey that it had to do with the sexy but deadly CIA Agent Sarah Walker. (Again? Really?)

Maybe it was guy radar or something, some kind of sensing device brought forward through millennia from the plains of Africa all the way to Beautiful Downtown Burbank. The thing that let the male of the species know who their competition for mating rights were. But Casey could tell the moment that Bartowski had begun to back off of Sarah.

It was as they were wrapping up that hostage situation on Christmas Eve. Something had obviously happened, and Casey's male intuition seems to have been spot on. Even Walker had finally decided there was something wrong with the nerd. Maybe it was when she realized that there was no longer any of his drool to wipe from her sleeve in the evenings. Ha!

But seriously, this was a problem, because an unhappy Intersect was maybe an ineffectual Intersect, and Chuck without his bag of tricks had the potential to cause even more problems for the NSA agent than he usually did.

Casey broached the subject with Sarah, offering to have a man-to-man talk with the dysfunctional dweeb. Except Sarah was more than well aware that Casey was no Dr. Phil and she vetoed that one right away. Then Casey tried to bully Chuck when he balked at one of the general's orders, but Bartowski was having none of it.

Casey was almost to the point of ignoring his partner and using a little pugilistic persuasion when Chuck finally did something they asked him to, and while Bartowski was busy convincing Tyler Martin to help them capture Gambir and take down the group building a private reactor in North Africa, Casey had to carefully school his features in front of Walker when Chuck calmed Tyler Martin's fears about the capability of his handlers with the words, "I stake my life on it every day. Because they're the best."

Well, paint me purple and call me Barney...

So later on, after the bad guys were rounded up and Martin was safely tucked up in his limousine, Chuck's curiosity got the better of him when he saw Sarah and Casey leaving on a mission. As he popped into the back seat of the Crown Vic to join them, Casey made sure to sneer into the rear view mirror, and as his eye caught Chuck's guileless expression and Walker's happy glow, he once again resigned himself to a long and – well, long stint as a government nanny to the world's biggest pain in the ass.

Okay, second-biggest. After all, it could have been worse. Casey could have been assigned as a handler to Tyler Martin.


	26. Casey vs The Suburbs

It really wasn't Casey's worst Valentine's Day ever. Not by a long shot. Sitting alone in his apartment on a cover assignment in Echo Park, working his way methodically through a bottle of the good stuff, three frozen burritos and several fine offerings on the Military Channel. Almost perfect, as a matter of fact.

Not like other Valentine's Days he could recall. The ones spent on missions where he had to be a bartender yet again, waiting for something to go down that never did. Those kinds of missions, the ones that came up empty, were harder to take than the ones spent captured, handcuffed to a chair and blindfolded or maybe staring into a bright light as some evildoer spouted what passed for bad guy banter in an effort to break him. So far, the cavalry had always managed to show up on time, though, and he'd ended up with nothing worse than a broken bone in his wrist. Again.

Infinitely better than a broken heart, in Casey's estimation.

Which might be a bit difficult to believe, but this knowledge actually came from personal experience. It had happened so long ago now that Casey had to make an effort to remember all the details. A sip of fire water helped him along as he tuned out the battlefield noises coming from the television and cast his mind back, before he started with the NSA, before he had become a soldier, even before he'd had his cherry popped. Man, that long ago? Time flies when you're trying to forget your past.

Anyway, Casey had finally cornered a girl at school and managed to not scare her away long enough that she agreed to go out with him. Hard to believe looking at him now, but as a callow youth, Casey had not really been up on the social graces. You know, like personal hygiene, speaking audibly, not acting like a dork, those kinds of things. There may be some of you who, looking at the man now, would say they could believe it, but, well, that's the subject for another story.

Back to our tale. Casey and his lady love managed to meet a few times just after school had resumed in the new year and things were going swimmingly, as far as Casey was concerned. Their first date had been pizza and sodas at a local joint. It went quite well. Until the fistfight started. When it was over, the girl was nowhere to be found, which was a shame, since Casey had clearly won the day and was proudly sporting a nice shiner as a memento.

Their second date was arranged after the girl relented upon seeing her knight in shining armor the next day at school and willing herself to believe him when he explained he had been protecting her honor and not just beating the crap out of those two guys for the fun of it. And he had let her pet his hair a bit and coo over his impressive battle wound. That part, Casey was surprised to discover, had been even more fun than the fight itself.

A movie this time, sitting in the dark, holding hands at first, then suddenly she was kissing him, tongue and all. It took Casey by surprise so much so that he dropped his extra-large cup of soda straight onto the floor and the contents geysered up, showering them both with the cold, wet and sticky beverage. Along with their clothes, this apparently also served to dampen the mood, and in spite of Casey's emphatic entreaties that they continue with the kissing, the girl figured that going home and getting cleaned up would be a better course of action. So much for budding romance.

Thanks to Casey's hitherto unknown powers of persuasion, he had managed to get the girl to agree to a third date, and this one actually lasted right until the end without any major mishaps. They had gone to a house party hosted by one of the guys at school, danced a bit – well, Casey managed what could be called dancing if someone wasn't too particular about the definition. But it had gone well enough that he'd coaxed his date to sit with him in a dark corner and pick up with the kissing again.

And when he had taken her back to her house afterwards, they spent another half hour together on the front porch swing, kissing and nuzzling and holding each other above the waists. Then the unexpected happened. Casey fell in love. How did he know it was love? Well, it must have been because he'd never felt that way before, all warm and full of yearning. Sort of twinkly eyed and horny at the same time.

The girl must have sensed something was different and she started a push-pull routine that Casey was having a hard time figuring out, what with his brain in a fog already with the love/lust thing. First she'd kiss him deeply then shove him upright when he tried to maneuver her into a supine position. Then she'd breathe heavily into his ear while swatting his hands away from her breasts. This carry on was starting to drive Casey a little crazy. He'd decided he'd had enough of it and tried to stand up abruptly and leave when the girl flung her arms around his neck, pressed herself to his chest, and whispered intoxicatingly into his ear.

"I love Valentine's Day. Make it special for me and I'll make it very special for you."

Hot damn.

So Casey made plans. He drew some money out of his savings account for the occasion, made a reservation at a real restaurant, ordered flowers and asked his mother to press his funeral suit and shirt. He even practiced tying a tie for a week in advance so he could get it just right. A trip to the barber for a haircut and a three-minute shave to tidy up the small tufts that had started to appear here and there, and he was ready, shoes polished and shining.

The girl had smartened herself up too. No dungarees tonight, and Casey marveled at how pretty she was in her long dress with a bit of a heel on her shoes, her hair swept up and caught in a sparkly pin at the back with long tendrils left loose to frame her face. She had even applied a bit of makeup and light-colored lipstick and there was evidence of perfume when Casey got closer so he could give her the flowers.

They drove in a taxi to the restaurant and had a nice meal of pasta and bread sticks, much more sophisticated than the pizza or popcorn had been, and Casey thought he detected an impressed look from the girl when he ordered tiramisu for dessert. And there had been definite approval when she slipped the first forkful between slightly parted, glistening lips, which she then licked with the end of her tongue as she moaned quietly with pleasure. Casey thought he had died and gone to heaven at that sound as he figured it might be a sample of things to come.

After dinner, they had gone to the house of a friend of the girl's, she said, because it had all been arranged. The parents were away and Casey and his Valentine would have the house to themselves. They got in through the back door with a key that was hidden nearby and got down to what Casey thought would end up being the perfect finish to a perfect Valentine's Day date. Alas, the perfidy of woman.

They had kissed long enough to make Casey stupid, which wasn't really that long, and he had been talked out of his clothes and onto a chair in the dark. Then the girl had left him there for a moment while she went into the next room. Not sure what to expect, this being his first time, Casey was willing to wait it out and participate in pretty much whatever she decided was going to happen.

It was only when he felt the cold metal around his wrists and the quick snick of the handcuffs closing behind him that Casey began to feel there might be something going terribly wrong. Then he heard some feminine giggling, which was even more unsettling because it sounded like the laughter of at least three girls, if not more.

His brain went immediately to full alert and quickly ticked down the possibilities. He was going to get laid by one or all of them? Probably not. They were going to leave him here in the dark for a while then let him go? Chances were better of that happening, but still not that good. They were getting a camera ready and the lights would go on soon and photos would be snapped? Yep, that's the one.

Casey didn't have much time to act, and he remembered something he had read about escape artists. They broke bones and kept themselves deformed so they could release themselves from their bonds. That appeared to be the only option at the moment, so Casey applied pressure and torsion and quickly snapped a small bone in his left wrist, which allowed him to slip his hand through the cuff. He jumped out of the chair, scooped his clothes off of the floor and was through the back door and stepping into his pants in the shadows outside when the lights went on inside the house and the disappointed wails of the girls could be heard by our jilted lover.

Casey frowned into his glass as he remembered the feeling now, all these years later. The painful throbbing in his hand and in his heart (and his groin) and the strong resolution he made that day that he would never allow it to happen again.

And the next day, as Casey stood on the roof of a suburban house and communicated with Chuck, who looked to be in a very good position to acquire not only a broken hand but also a broken heart, he advised the Intersect that "Handcuffs are a cinch," but neglected to add that they were a cinch if you've already broken the bone. And about the other thing? Chuck and Sarah pretending to be a married couple in love in their first home together? That was a cinch too, but only if, as with the handcuffs, your heart has already been broken.


	27. Casey vs The Best Friend

Semper Fidelis. Always Faithful.

Chuck Bartowski. Always Moronic.

Like with this friendship thing. Why worry about Morgan Grimes, the bearded loser? A man in years but a child in maturity. Someone with absolutely zero self-respect, zero dignity. A guy who insisted on chasing Anna Wu around, probably the only woman who had ever given him the time of day for more than a day. Or half an evening, for that matter. And she could be a really good field agent too. What a waste of independent, kickass woman.

And the other two idiots, Jeff and Lester. Jeffster. Now they were officially joined at the hip, it seemed. Admittedly, their surveillance setup was not bad for a couple of amateurs, but the way they destroyed one of his favorite musical anthems from Casey's comparative youth was inexcusable. They should be locked in a room with piped-in Kenny G music 24/7 so scientists could see how long they survived. Boy, Casey sure hoped he never had to hear them play again as long as he lived.

And Chuck's insistence that he and Casey relate on a level of friendship, well, that was ludicrous. In spite of all the subtle hints that Casey kept throwing his way – all right, not subtle. All the insulting and demeaning ripostes that Casey fired at that pale, seemingly thin skin, jabs that would have efficiently ended a friendship between Casey and anyone else – might have even gotten him killed depending on who he threw them at – the Intersect seemed to be able to survive them with his Teflon ego intact, toss a couple back Casey's way, and make the friend overtures yet again in the face of the NSA agent's growling and snarling and general nasty unfriendliness.

Even the Intersect's dumb attachment to Walker when she was being so hard-nosed was difficult to understand. Well, maybe not that difficult. Women's panties didn't usually just fly off by themselves. A man was required to apply himself, and for some guys, the devoted puppy act seemed to work like a charm. Casey was pretty sure that Sarah was too sophisticated and smart to fall for that one, though. "We'll be friends forever, even if you tear out my heart with your bare hands, spit on it, and stomp it under your stiletto." Right. Good luck on the sentimental friendship angle there, Chuckie, old boy.

But you had to hand it to the kid, either he had a very highly developed sense of duty or he was just plain shit-for-brains stupid. Driving off in the Nerd Herder with the Triad bomb in it like a heroic imbecile. Casey didn't know whether to keep his eyes on the vehicle or on Walker's terrified expression. She was clearly losing it with tears beginning to form as her face contorted, screaming out Chuck's name as though she were about to watch the death of someone she held dear. Like a friend. Or maybe even a lover.

But it was difficult to keep tabs on Walker's condition when Casey's own eyes held a mist of wetness, his own face a look of dawning horror as he yelled, "Get out of there, Bartowski!"

Surely Casey had only reacted so strongly because an explosion was no way for any person to die. Naturally he would be horrified to witness an event so devastating. After all, Chuck Bartowski was just an asset. Nothing more. Not a friend.

So why was Casey overcome with such a rush of mixed emotions when Bartowski appeared from behind them (how in the hell did he do that, anyway?), Nerd Herder remote controller in hand, yammering away like the idiot that he was?

Casey's fondest wish for months and months now had been for this mission to be over so he could be sent on an assignment as far away from Burbank as possible, never to return. Why was his gut in knots, his emotions so conflicted when he thought for the briefest moments that that time had come? Why did he want to hug Chuck and strangle him at the same time as the skin-covered robot only now realized that people he considered to be his friends thought he had died in the explosion?

Why was Casey suddenly thinking of Chuck as a friend? That had to be wrong. Lock that one behind a stout door and throw away the key, thank you very much. But you had to admit, for someone who was like the poster child for friendly fire, Chuck seemed to have a way of coming up roses every time.

Semper Bartowski.


	28. Casey vs The Beefcake

It really was the most annoying romance of Casey's life, and that was including several that he had experienced personally. At first, Bartowski's inability to make any kind of concrete progress with Walker was mildly amusing. I mean, come on, it was a cover. Didn't the kid realize that? Sarah wasn't interested. The way those fourteen year old boys had come on to her in the Wienerlicious every day when this whole thing had started probably gave them a better chance of success than Chuck's pathetic attempts at seduction. And that was before Cole Barker arrived on the scene.

Casey had to hand it to the man, he was one smooth operator. The British version of Roan Montgomery, only twenty-five years younger and sober. Also very impressive sans towel. After all, there weren't many men out there in Casey's league.

It was no wonder that Walker was trying so hard to convince herself that she wasn't interested. Casey chuckled to himself. Better be careful, might seem like the beginning of a man crush here.

There was definitely envy. Barker's resume read like a field agent's wet dream. What Casey wouldn't give to be back out there doing real work. Instead of handing out advice to a lovesick jerk whose most common reaction was to stand around with his hands in his pants pockets looking pathetic. Or to faint.

Yes, it had come to that now. Casey was officially turning into an agony uncle. And all to help Bartowski out with a relationship that the agent (a) didn't support; (b) shouldn't care about; and (c) on a good day only made him feel slightly sick to his stomach. It must be guy solidarity or something.

Because Cole Barker had it all going on and that wasn't fair. Why not spread it around a bit? Casey could use some extra mojo now and then in the ladies department. And Chuck? Well, if his love life were anything to go by, the spy rule of thumb, "Everyone talks," should be changed to "Everyone chokes."

So as Casey and Chuck watched Walker assist Agent Barker to leave the site of his torture and Casey's well-aimed quips shot down Chuck's feeble attempts to bolster his own ego by describing fainting as a "move," Casey suddenly felt sympathy for the Intersect.

After all, there really weren't that many Cole Barkers in the world. A man who knew how to assess a woman in nanoseconds and start his play immediately. A man who would never shove his hands in his pockets and give a woman the "It's not you, it's me" speech. A man who would even resort to the bald truth in pursuit of his Botticelli. A man other men should hate but couldn't help but admire. And here was one in the flesh, standing stolidly between Bartowski and the object of his mandolescent yearnings.

And here was Casey spouting platitudes like some maiden aunt at a tea party. "Don't worry, champ. Lots of other fish in the sea." But even though Casey applied his usual sarcastic tone just for the sake of form, he still felt more than a bit sorry for the nerd. There certainly were lots of fish out there but, as with Cole Barker, there definitely weren't very many Sarah Walkers.

Man, but it's gotta be tough on the kid with all of that just out of reach while he's having such a hard time trying to figure out how to make his play. Hell, any play would do at this point. Frankly, if the two of them couldn't make a fake relationship work, how in the hell would they ever survive in a real one?


	29. Casey vs The Lethal Weapon

Nine is definitely do-able. Well, it used to be, anyway. Maybe not anymore. Casey was pretty sure he didn't want to test it out, not with the way things had been going lately.

He must be getting old. Or maybe everybody else was getting younger. Look at Bartowski. Not quite thirty yet. A kid. And Walker, a couple of years younger than that. Even Cole Barker made him feel a little long in the tooth.

That guy sure could take it. Not that Casey hadn't suffered and survived his share of torture, bullets, poison, what have you. All in a day's work for a truly active spy. But what Barker had just been through looked like it had been pretty rough, judging from the wounds he was carrying when he broke into Castle. Add to that two more bullets and you had a pretty impressive tally for one mission. Walker could while away a couple of hours playing connect-the-dots using Barker's bullet holes if she'd let her hair down.

Casey chuckled as he remembered having that game played on him by a rather talented and imaginative redheaded Norwegian agent in – Bucharest, was it? Ah, good times.

Anyway, that was then, a long time ago, and this was now. And it looked like "special" agent Chuck Bartowski was getting in on the action. Maybe Casey should have told Barker in advance that giving a nerd a real gun was a mistake. It was just lucky that stray bullet had hit Busgang and not either of his handlers. Casey wanted to retire, not be retired. And especially not by his asset.

Pausing for a moment, Casey recalled what the general had said. That there might actually be a way to get the Intersect out of Chuck's head. If that happened, this mission would be over, one way or another. Maybe Casey would be asked to clean up, like he had done on so many other missions. He had almost forgotten about that part. If so, he'd be the one putting a bullet into Chuck. He'd have to make sure and do it so that the boy didn't know it was coming. Clean kill. No pain.

Well, at least that was something Casey didn't have to deal with right away. Busgang was dead, the Intersect was still firmly inside Bartowski's head, and Sarah... Well, Sarah was having a hard time holding it together. Casey would have to keep an eye on her, help her out where he could without making it seem like he was interfering.

Because fooling around with another agent was one thing; fooling around with your asset who happened to be crazy in love and was tempting you to fall in love with them was another. And Casey knew from his long years of experience that, in the spy business, some things just were not do-able.


	30. Casey vs The Predator

So the general wanted all the surveillance on the happy couple, did she?

Casey snickered as he recalled some of the more interesting bits of tape he had suffered through. Interesting in the sense that they were classic examples of a Bartowski in the wild performing the nerd mating dance. Feathers and all.

Oh, the angst! The suffering! And don't forget the drama! Casey had been surprised on more than one occasion that Walker hadn't covertly checked her wristwatch during one of Chuck's more "complicated" heart-to-hearts. His laughter turned to a wince when he remembered one particularly heave-inducing moment in his Chuck Bartowski Video Library of Fun.

Well, might as well get started. Lots to go through.

First, better be prepared. Cookies, check. Tin of tunafish, check. Bottle of Black, check. Burritos on reserve, check. Okay, now Casey was ready.

He sat down on the chair in front of the monitor and adjusted his hips for comfort. Then he lifted the headphones from the desk and slipped them over his ears, letting the head bracket fall jauntily to the back of his neck. After turning the unit on and checking to make sure the firewalls and other security measures were functioning, he clicked open the first folder of video files.

This was going to be a very long night.

* * *

The first hour was deadly dull. Casey's empty tunafish tin, fork propped inside, sat to one side of the computer keyboard next to the headphones, which he had unplugged in favor of listening to the audio over the air.

Casey absently brushed cookie crumbs from his stomach and, without turning his head to look, reached out to the right and slightly behind himself, his fingers locating the bottle of whiskey by touch. He had picked up the bottle and was holding it in front of his chest so he could unscrew the cap when he started to yell at his computer monitor.

"For the love of all that's holy, Bartowski, kiss her now!"

It didn't seem to matter to Casey in his excitement that he was watching video footage that was several months old, and, eyes still glued to the screen, he managed to uncap the bottle, pour a healthy dose into a nearby glass, close and replace the bottle on the desktop, and take a large swig from his glass before picking up with his yelling again.

"You blind imbecile! No wonder you never get any! Look! Walker just touched her hair! She's begging for it! Can't you see? Move in closer and let her get a good shot of pheromones!"

Pausing a moment, breath suspended, Casey watched the scene unfold, completely rapt.

"Oh! Not the old 'You go first!' Idiots!"

After this tirade, Casey slumped in his chair and sucked back the rest of his drink, thinking to himself, _Stupid kids_.

* * *

It had been four hours. Four long hours of painful torture as Casey analyzed every moment – blow-by-blow, so to speak – at times flinging his arms into the air and almost turning purple with frustration as he watched the pair close in, stumble, and part again and again.

"Now, Intersect, now! Not two years from now!"

"Shut your yap for two seconds and use it to kiss her!"

"Look, she just licked her lips and stuck her chest out at you! What do you need, a roadmap?"

And, finally, "Can't you see, Bartowski, how much she wants you? She just touched your arm! That's like a free pass to All-You-Can-Eat Night at Buster's Smörgåsbord!"

* * *

By hour six, Casey was starting to wear himself out. He clicked to copy the last of the video clips into General Beckman's file after it ended with Chuck and Sarah once again finishing a conversation in confusion and misunderstanding and, clear as day for Casey, anyway, a high degree of sexual frustration on both sides.

"It's a wonder the human race hasn't died out yet. Good thing it's not up to those two to populate the earth. I may have to give Chuck some pointers if he doesn't get the mo in his jo soon."

Sighing with fatigue, Casey stood after closing down his equipment and stretched, yawning loudly. He was bone tired but would have to make do with only four hours of sleep before his morning shift at the Buy More.

Climbing the stairs and going into the bathroom, he ran the tap at the sink and splashed some water onto his face, looking up into the mirror as he grabbed a small towel and seeing dry, red-rimmed eyes.

And something else.

In his reflection, there were two white, fluffy arcs of something protruding up behind his shoulders. Feathers. He flexed his shoulder muscles experimentally and the feathery things spread up and out a bit, returning to their original position when he relaxed again. And the hand towel he had picked up to dry his face had changed. It now looked very much like a small bow and arrow.

Casey closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it.

No. Couldn't be. Not the baddest of badass G-Man assassins, and certainly not for his partner and their handful of an asset.

Not possible.

John Casey? Cupid? No way.


	31. Casey vs The Broken Heart

_Agent Forrest should be the perfect woman for me. Like Bartowski said, a match made in a very frightening part of heaven. She's a smart, experienced agent, focused, with a killer's instinct. She doesn't give up and I'll bet you a month's pay she doesn't give in. A real hardass._

_And speaking of hard and ass, well, even before she showed up at Woodcomb's bachelor party in that cop getup – which, by the way, was a waking wet dream, and not just for me – you could see she's fit and toned and ready for action. Any kind of action._

_And she knows her firearms. Certainly knows how to wield a tranq gun, and by the way she was handling her pieces when we were cleaning them together – rubbing and stroking and carefully blowing the dirty parts and bracing the long, hard barrels against her breasts so that they were cradled there lovingly and securely, smoothly sliding them back together, one inside the other, and screwing – um, well, you get the picture. Anyway, watching that sure perked up my .22 for a couple of minutes._

_But then she deep-sixed Walker (the best damn partner I ever had) and everything changed. Because I finally saw Agent Forrest for who she really is._

_She's me._

_Or she's the me I was up until this assignment. Hard and cold and unemotional. By-the-book, with blinders on when it comes to people and their feelings. And, as it turns out, a soulless replica does not a good agent make._

_Sure, it's imperative in certain situations to be calculating and unyielding, decisive and able to ignore the potential fallout of your actions but, as much as I hate to admit it, the time I've spent with Bartowski and Walker and their feelings has taught me something. There is a place for emotion in an agent's repertoire alongside his (or her) weapons and reports and adherence to protocol. That is, if it's the right kind of emotion._

_Freaking out under pressure? Very dangerous. Misplacing your spine when the going gets tough? Not cool. Abandoning all self-respect when a pretty girl walks by? The worst._

_But the feelings that Walker has for the Intersect and he has for her, they're different. They're the I'll-walk-through-fire-for-you kinds of feelings. They're the kinds of feelings my old squad has, each for the other, even though the guys never actually talked about it in those terms. They're not only the kinds of feelings that will make you want to keep the rest of your team alive but will make you want to stay alive along with them. I guess you could call it compassion, if you were looking for a word to describe it. Human compassion._

_Hmmphf, never thought I'd say it, but now when I look at Agent Forrest I don't see a perfect agent, I don't see a red-hot woman, I don't even see me anymore, which I'm getting to like the more I think about it._

_The only thing that bothers me is the things I see when I look at Agent Forrest – the coldness, the unfeeling so-called perfection, the mindlessness of her – is that what people still see when they look at me? Because all of a sudden, that makes me sad._

_I think I need a drink._


	32. Casey vs The Dream Job

_Something is seriously wrong. Bartowski just shot me. Well, at least it was only a tranq dart. Or three. Just reach up here and get this one out of my neck and then pull the others and go after the crazy S.O.B._

_Um..._

_Can't move._

_Shit._

_Shit, shit, shit._

_That sounds funny._

_Mmmmmmm. Nice drugs._

_No, don't give in to it. Gotta go get Tarbowski – Barskowtsky – Skartowsk..._

_Shit._

_Bet that's the first time he's shot a firearm that wasn't attached to a game controller._

_Whoaaaaaaaaa! Little angels!_


	33. Casey vs The First Kill

"Operation Moron is over."

Casey felt relieved. For about 2.6 seconds. Then his brain betrayed him. Damn brain!

It started thinking – all by itself, mind you – of the previously referenced moron, Charles Irving Bartowski by name, and wouldn't let go. It replayed for Casey The Morgan and that reminded him of The Coburn, which was essentially the same thing, even though it had never caused anyone to have a heart attack or fall out of a window from the 15th story of a downtown office building. It was a move that Casey had invented pretty much instinctively in the seventh grade that was designed to protect pending generations of Coburns and to maintain the current incarnation's cerebral function to full capacity. Before that gang of older boys kicked the living shit out of him. Behind the shopping mall. You know.

Casey's brain then went on to flash, as it were, back to the Fulcrum exam room. Again with the moron, an arm shielding his precious test screen. Which caused another flashback – a piggyback flash – back to Casey's classroom. Which one? Well, pick one. It didn't much matter which school, which grade, which subject, Casey's brain could find an image that showed him surreptitiously craning his neck and swiveling his eyeballs to try to see around the crooked arm of the class braniac sitting beside him just to get a little help, a tiny boost, a crumb that would mean a scrape-by grade on a test. For a change. And there they all were, like a freakish parade of nerds giving the time-honored nerd answer-sheet-protection salute, marching across Casey's memory and turning smug faces towards him, as though Casey sat forlornly on the idiots' reviewing stand as they strode past him to academic glory.

Casey shook his head slightly to clear it, but when he returned his gaze to the general peering down at him from the monitor, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed, hair in a tightly coiled bun as she delivered her instructions in a scolding schoolmarm voice, Casey's traitorous brain took control again, delivering him back to the Fulcrum test room and the sight of the Fulcrum agent who had presided over the testing session. She was every bit a masochistic schoolboy's dream and just as much a reminder to Casey of his teachers – although in a smoking hot black man-style suit and heels – as she kept tabs on him and Chuck, whispering to her colleague and looking stern and unyielding.

There had been a moment when Casey had truly felt on an emotional level the meaning of the word "emasculation." Too bad she was on the wrong side.

Anyway, it had all worked out in the end. Casey chuckled to himself as he recalled how it felt to off the bitch while at the same time saving the U.S. government thousands upon thousands of dollars in psychiatric fees, and blasting through that window pane and two more Fulcrum agents hadn't hurt Casey's ego either as he smoothly declared to Chuck, "Looks like I passed that test."

So, all things considered, Casey should have felt relieved, as his words and behavior seemed to indicate to Walker, that this farce of a mission would soon be over. That Bartowski would be planted never to see the light of day again. That Casey could go back to his squad and do some soothing black ops work, maybe eliminate a couple of petty dictators, make a difference, stop being the brawn that protects the brain.

So why was there a part of Casey's brain that was now telling him, however faintly, that these sentiments were false, were hollow?

Damn brain.

Damn heart.


	34. Casey vs The Colonel

Author's Note:_ I noticed a few months ago that what I had written for this chapter didn't actually match up with the events of the episode as per the rules of the challenge. Wires were crossed, and what I wrote was about an episode in season 3. I've left it at the bottom here just in case you, dear reader, can find enjoyment in reading it. So here is something that actually does reflect the episode entitled "Chuck vs The Colonel"._

* * *

Casey sat and stared at the screen showing a black background and the NSA logo in blue. He could still hear General Beckman's words, the ones that spoke of an imminent air strike on the Starbright Drive-In in Barstow, California, the place where Stephen Bartowski was being held by Ted Roarke. And his ears still stung.

You see, Casey had this whole complex structure that held up his life. Gave it meaning. And that structure was based on trust. Trust that his superiors were asking him to do bad things for good motives. Trust that the things he did were for the purpose of protecting the people of his beloved country. Trust that everything would work out in the end if he just had enough trust.

What was excluded from this construct was betrayal, and so it seared Casey to the core when his orders were to abandon Stephen Bartowski to a fiery death. Because he knew that Chuck Bartowski also had a life construct based on trust. And that Chuck trusted him and had trusted him when he had said "If your dad's there, we'll keep him safe. You have my word."

When he had taken Chuck and Sarah into custody earlier and driven them back to Castle, his promotion to Colonel fresh and new, he was still trusting the system. It was difficult to block out Walker's explanation from the back seat of the car for why Casey wasn't going to let them go. After all, he was just following orders, doing what any officer should and would do in his place. When Walker's succinct "You trusted somebody who you thought cared about you," hit home, a primal defense mechanism forced Casey to reply, "I don't care," but that was a lie. He cared. He obviously cared too much since it was getting in the way of the job. This was bound to happen when civilians were involved.

And later, in the holding cells of Castle, when Chuck accused him of betrayal of the team, his precious Team Bartowski, Casey was quick again to shoot back, "I never betray my team!" But this was also a lie.

Trust and betrayal. Truth and lies. Seemingly simple choices. But with all the complications of doing a job, living day to day, trying to get somewhere in life, trying to do some good to leave as your legacy, nothing is ever that simple.

So now it was time to tell the truth. It was time to be real.

"You didn't ask me to join."

Chuck was quick. You had to give him that. And he didn't embarass the colonel with a big fuss. He just asked. He almost hugged, but a good growl put paid to that idea.

Oh, almost forgot. There was one more time to lie, this time to General Beckman. Got to protect Walker. Bartowski laid it on a bit thick but a swift kick – literally – got the point across.

So the team was back together, if spirit if not in fact, and Casey was on his way to Ellie and Devon's rehearsal dinner, relaxed and looking forward to a good smoke and an open bar.

On his way with his ex-partner Sarah Walker. And with his friend, Chuck Bartowski.

* * *

_And here is the original chapter:_

* * *

_I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the regulations and the uniform code of military justice. So help me God._

Casey unclasped his hands from in front of his face and got up from his kneeling position on the floor beside his bed. After taking off his slippers and draping his robe across the end of the bed, he ran his fingers around under the elastic waistband of his navy blue cotton pajama bottoms so it wouldn't pinch and readjusted the top by jerking it smooth. He then pulled back the covers and slid between the sheets. Once he was nestled in just the right spot on his back, he rolled partway and reached out to turn off the bedside lamp, sighing as darkness enveloped him, and he drifted off to sleep, the fingers of his right hand inserted underneath the pillow and touching the butt of his favorite gun, a SIG Sauer P229 Equinox modified with Crimson Trace laser grips and mounts.

* * *

The moment it happened, Casey knew what he had to do. Not because he was motivated by any of the seven deadly sins (wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, gluttony) or had decided to adhere to the more lofty seven virtues (chastity, temperance, charity, diligence, patience, kindness, humility) that he had learned by heart in his catechism classes early on Sunday mornings before mass, but because the oath of the United States Marines that permeated every fiber of his being made it crystal clear.

Casey had to protect Stephen Bartowski, as he had promised the Intersect.

Now, Casey realized that to do this he must disobey a direct order from a superior officer, namely, General Diane Beckman, but he also understood that, in the oath, the Constitution of the United States came first, even before his duty to the President. In other words, even if Ronald Reagan himself were the President today, Casey would still have come to the conclusion that his actions must lead to the personal safety of the man who had built the first Intersect, the man with the code name Orion. It said so in the preamble.

_We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America._

There it was, right there. Almost the first thing that was mentioned. Justice.

So instead of capturing or killing Walker and Bartowski, Casey tracked them down a second time to the abandoned drive-in theater in Barstow, California, and forced the pair to accept his help. Made them understand that he was once again part of the team. That he wasn't going to betray them after all. Even if it meant prison or worse.

What he hadn't counted on was being given a life sentence at the Buy More. The hot, jabbing sting in his gut when the general decommissioned him and addressed him as "Mr. Casey." The sudden shriveling of his sense of self in light of this new development and in the face of having to live in the world as a civilian. Again.

* * *

That night, as he lowered himself to kneel on the floor beside his bed, Casey desperately, almost feverishly, repeated to himself the sentence, _Once a Marine, always a Marine_, and then recited the dignified oath in his head as he had done for so many years, but this time, when he was finished, he added, _And please keep those who deserve my loyalty from harm_, being very careful not to voice the names of those individuals in his head so as to avoid truly acknowledging the ties that had formed, almost without his noticing, over the past three years. The unbreakable ties that now bound him to Charles Irving Bartowski. The ties that had forced Casey to make the most difficult decision of his life. The right one.


	35. Casey vs The Ring

Back with the old team. On the way to Waziristan. Casey loved the "stans". Felt like going home.

The men. His men. Kazinsky. Barber. O'Toole. Shapiro. Miles. All trained. All eager. All loyal.

Well, as it turns out, maybe not every one of them was so loyal after all.

But let's rewind just a bit first.

It felt good to be flying towards a real mission with real soldiers around him, and Casey sighed a sigh full of anticipation and self-satisfaction as he strapped himself into the carrier's seat.

The best part? No more Bartowski. Not only no more Bartowski but no more Bartowski family members, friends, co-workers, lame retail job, middle-class existence. Let's see, what else? No more Walker.

That part wasn't necessarily so great. Casey imagined what it would be like having Walker on his black ops team. He sure could use her skills. And it would be entertaining watching her interact with the young men in the forward cabin. Maybe not so entertaining for them at times, however. Until they learned.

Casey chuckled to himself as he remembered the first time he underestimated Walker and tried to hit her. Not "hit on her", just hit her, thank goodness. He couldn't even imagine what these bantam roosters in black tactical gear would have to survive for the audacity of not being Charles Irving Bartowski.

And that was it in a nutshell: There really was nobody just like the Intersect, at least nobody Casey could remember ever meeting. A genius who did incredibly stupid things. A problem-solver who seemed to cause more problems than he solved. A man with a heart of gold and feet of clay. And don't forget stubborn to a fault.

It was this trait that Casey turned his mind to now as he shifted in the carrier's barely comfortable seat. Not once since Casey had climbed the metal staircase to that helipad rooftop and aimed his laser sights at the incredible brain that was part human, part computer database had Chuck ever given up on the NSA agent. Even when Casey had been at his snarkiest, his meanest, his most insulting, Chuck hadn't been deterred one bit in his caring concern for Casey's emotional and physical welfare. And Casey even figured now that their partnership – well, yes, and their friendship – was starting to function on a different, a higher, level, that even the knowledge of General Beckman's previous kill order wouldn't put the younger man off in the slightest.

Casey paused in his musings for a moment and shuddered. Thank goodness and the late Ronald Reagan the new Intersect had been destroyed and Sarah arrived with the news when she did. Otherwise, Casey would have terminated the one man in the world who cared enough to try and see past his gruff exterior and all the emotional barriers that Casey had built up over the years.

So maybe he would miss the nerd after all. That felt strange.

Also strange was the buzzing vibration coming from his pants pocket under the lower edge of his flak jacket. Tickled a bit!

Twisting around so he could retrieve his cell phone, Casey wondered who it could be. Must be General Beckman with additional intel for this mission. After all, Chuck and Walker were busy with Ellie's and Devon's wedding, and what could happen at a simple wedding that they would be bothering him about now?

* * *

Bunting and begonias. Well, at least the spy game was never boring.

* * *

How could he have been so wrong about Miles? Not only on the not being a traitor thing but also not being part of Fulcrum but involved with The Ring. And, third, wrong about the man's personal loyalty. That part worked out okay, though. Better to be cold cocked than iced. Unfortunately for Miles, Casey wasn't inclined to return the favor.

* * *

Team Bartowski, together again, even temporarily, just to get Bryce Larkin and the Intersect cube out of this trap and back to the good guys in the government. Hmmm… Felt kinda good. Pay attention, now. There are bad guys about.

* * *

So Bartowski downloaded the Intersect 2.0. Looks like the team really is back together. Maybe ten more years of living in Burbank. Working at the Buy More. Listening to the nerd's crazy nerdiness. Watching Walker realize that she was really falling in love with him.

Internal grunt.

Ten more years of getting things done for the good side. Interesting missions that really made a difference. Getting to know these people who had touched Casey on an emotional level and believed that he was one of them, not a loner and an outsider. Not just a hired killer.

Ten more years of Charles Irving Bartowski, the Intersect.

"Chuck me!"


End file.
